


Steeled

by hannahrhen



Series: Prompted [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Coming Out, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Drabble, Drunken Confessions, Excessive Drinking, Exhibitionism, Fantasy Dubious Consent, Flirting, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prompt Fic, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Clint, Protective Steve Rogers, Reconciliation, Schmoop, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Stevedores, Swearing, Tony Being Tony, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Trauma, Tuxedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrelated collection of Steve/Bucky drabbles ... starting with:</p><p>Steve isn't impressed by the swearing. Maybe he'll be impressed by something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue Streak

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Blue Streak: Steve isn't impressed by the swearing. Maybe he'll be impressed by something else.  
> 2\. [Steeled](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3313403): Steve knows enough not to let go. (Mature)  
> 3\. [Technophile](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3403853): Tony loved few things more than being trolled by crotchety old grandpas about his tech.  
> 4\. [Stevedore](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3403934): He was just a nasty street mutt with nasty thoughts. (Fantasy dubcon)  
> 5\. [A Few Licks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3404027): At first, Steve couldn’t speak. Just looked at Bucky across the room, let his mouth open and close a few times, and waited for it to be a joke. (Oh, yes: Spanking)  
> 6\. [Tune Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3437009): Steve finds Bucky on one of the bad days.  
> 7\. [Behind the Shield](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3493115): In which a book comes out, and so does Captain America.  
> 8\. [Let the Punishment Fit](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3509240): Steve can't take any more of Bucky's lip. (More spanking)  
> 9\. [Black Tie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3600407): A fluffy reconciliation drabble featuring pretty boys in tuxes.  
> 10\. [Soused](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3718283): Steve Rogers is an honest drunk.  
> 11\. [Back in Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3748801): “Come here.” And the Soldier patted his thigh as the corner of his mouth curled up. (Ha, yes: More spanking)  
> 12\. [Lookout](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/4410864): Bucky is compromised, Steve is worried, and Clint looks out for his team.  
> 13\. [Curtain Call](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/5096879): Bucky enjoys Steve on stage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve isn't impressed by the swearing. Maybe he'll be impressed by something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated Teen for swearing.
> 
> Inspired by [Sebastian Stan's foul mouth](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com/post/84410497583/thebollyknickers-greedy-fly-for). Lordy, that's pretty.

“Fuck you,” he spat at Stark’s retreating back. He got a stupid dismissive hand-wave in return, Tony Stark being neither impressed nor particularly offended by the insult.

Had obviously heard it a lot.

God, fuck Stark. Fuck him and his better-than-you bullshit.

Bucky turned to leave the common room himself. Almost forgot that he wasn’t alone.

“Geez, Buck,” and that was Steve, who _of course_ had come in just as the confrontation had turned nasty, but too late to intervene.

He didn’t have time for this. “What,” he said, twisting around, ready to lay into even innocent civilians.

“Nothing--nothing.” Steve glanced over at the door where Stark had made his exit. Then, with a helpless smile, added, “Just ... language.” He shrugged. “Would you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

And damn if Bucky wasn’t sick of that--he’d heard it his whole damned life, his mother was _dead_ , and what was wrong with a goddamned swear word when he was a goddamned _grown man_. When they’d been through what they’d fucking been through--

“Naw, Steve.” He tried to keep his tone light but knew he was failing. He re-aimed himself at the exit, broke out a nastier tone to get Steve off his back. “But I’d kiss something else. If you’d just let me.”

He’d almost made his escape when he noticed ... silence. He paused, sighed. Let his shoulders slump. Yeah, hurting Steve--that wasn’t what he was here for. Might as well deal with this before everyone in the tower hated him. Turned back to see Steve--yeah--scarlet red and twisting his hands together. His shoulders were down, too, but his eyes were aimed straight at Bucky.

“Steve--look--”

Steve made a visible effort to untangle his fingers and drop his arms to his sides. “I’m sorry, I--” He visibly cringed at the break in his voice.

“No, it’s--”

“No, I mean--”

God, were they going to do this _all night_? Bucky was trying to hang on to the head of steam he’d built over Tony Fucking Asshole Stark, and Steve was sitting there blushing like a girl and trying to--

“It’s just,” and, yeah, there he went again. “Did you mean it, Buck? What you’d do with your mouth?” And the nervous pinch of his mouth spread into a ... it was a shy smirk, put on for show, but ... oh, _definitely a smirk_ , and Bucky kind of thought--

Suddenly suspected--

Oh, geez. Bless Stark and his interweb or googlenet or whatever, those videos he'd kept tricking them into watching, because there was Steve and now he was smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing and he was moving closer and--

Bucky’s mouth went dry, which wouldn’t do at all. He swallowed. “Yeah, uh--yeah, I did.”

And before Steve had a chance to touch him, Bucky reached out, first with flesh, then with metal, and pulled Steve to him, because that was suddenly a very good idea.

And Bucky was going to keep fucking swearing-- _hell, yes,_ he was--but for right now, he was going to put his mouth to another use.


	2. Steeled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve knows enough not to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messing around with an exactly-500-words drabble.
> 
> This one rated Mature for sexual content.

Steve knew the taste of Bucky’s cock.

He had memorized it in the war years, when they came to know each other best. Over time, grown to love the taste, always partnered with fond blue eyes tracking every move, fingers tracing through his hair and along the stretched-out corners of his mouth.

The familiar taste had been long uncoupled from kindness, and tonight Steve held still, very still, on his knees with hands behind his back, while the Winter Soldier tried his damnedest to shove straight down into Steve’s throat.

“Touch me, and I’ll leave,” the Soldier had said in Bucky’s voice but that unique accent, mating Brooklyn boy and Soviet nightmare. He’d carried through on the threat in early visits, enough that Steve nearly cut off his own circulation braceleting his wrists with thumbs and fingers.

Fucking Captain America’s mouth wasn’t enough, apparently, as the Soldier kept withdrawing long enough to bump his cockhead over Steve’s cheekbones, his chin--to smear cooling trails of precome over his skin while Steve flushed hot.

Steve couldn’t help but flush, could barely remember to shut his mouth when he was filled with this want. When the Soldier was just going to push back in anyway, get rougher and rougher until he finally came on the back of Steve’s tongue. Until Steve swallowed it all, held still by strong hands in his hair and his own will.

Later, in bed, Steve gripped the lower edge of the headboard as he was ridden, both of them groaning but the Soldier with an edge of something more. Steve opened his eyes to see the man curling over him, that long, tangled hair sliding over Steve’s face but never blocking those frantic eyes.

The Soldier was barely hard again--wasn’t _that_ superhuman, so why’d he even stay to finish Steve off after he’d come, but maybe he got something out of making Steve--

The next words inadvertently echoed Steve’s thoughts. “Why do you let me do this to you, Stevie?” he taunted, bitter ... even--especially when they were like this, intimate and aching. “Why? After so long?”

“You know why.”

The metal hand on his throat was the Soldier’s means of encouragement. “Tell me. What do you--”

“I love you.”

And Buck wasn’t surprised by it, no. He snorted. “You _stupid_ \--”

“Shut up.” And Steve would have yanked on that dirty hair if he’d been allowed. Pulled and turned him over and _made him listen_. “I do.” As reward, maybe, the Soldier clenched as he seated himself, again and again, hot squeezes around the base of Steve’s cock, until Steve was grunting, barely able to form the words.

Steve’s spine tensed as he jerked up, so close, and the Soldier grabbed his shoulders to hang on. “Always.” And, there was the edge of his orgasm, and he could only hear Buck’s voice whispering back, “Yes, you will. Punk.”

As his fingernails gouged the headboard and those frantic eyes watched him come, Steve was smart enough not to let go.


	3. Technophile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony loved few things more than being trolled by crotchety old grandpas about his tech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From melonbutterfly's prompt: "inspired by that tumblr post: Bucky and Steve complaining about being underwhelmed by the future, like yeah okay you can go to space now but somehow you still have to fold your laundry yourself come on future get it together"

Tony loved few things more than being trolled by crotchety old grandpas about his tech. It happened in board meetings, it happened in press conferences, and, these days, he was oh-so-lucky-enough to put up with it in his damned kitchen.

He waved emphatically at the StarkPhone that Barnes was tapping, totally unimpressed, against the kitchen counter. “You’re welcome, by the way, for the device that connects you with anyone, anywhere, in under five seconds.” He watched Barnes give Steve that shitty little smirk that pissed Tony off—the one that meant Tony had taken the bait, again, because he couldn’t help himself.

He also didn’t imagine that Barnes tapped the phone harder on the granite. So he had to press on: “You know, the one that’ll find any news you want, up to the minute, or play any goddamned movie you like, at any time, because heaven forbid you get bored. And the fact that you can have anything—from anywhere—here in a day. Less than a day. I’m sure your Pony Express could manage that in the prehistoric times.”

And Steve was smiling now, too, and Barnes’ body language was changing, like he knew he’d roped Steve in, and now he just got to watch the fireworks.

“We’re just sayin’, Tony,” and that was Steve, sure enough, who was less evil than Barnes but could be tricked into this game too easily, always wanting to make good-ol’ Bucky laugh. “For all these neat gadgets you guys have invented—” _Gadgets!_ “—there still are a lot of uninformed, out-of-touch people in the world.”

“And in this room,” Barnes said, and what a dick.

“We’re just giving you a hard time, Tony,” Steve said later, after Barnes had made a sandwich and left (complaining the whole time about doing the work himself). “You know Bucky likes to get a rise outta you.”

“Yeah, well … ,” and then Tony petered out, because he knew his tech was awesome and wasn’t about to keep this discussion going any longer than he had to. He and Steve settled into a discussion about armor modifications that lasted into mid-afternoon.

Then Steve’s phone beeped—text alert. Tony glanced up just in time to see Steve’s reaction to whatever was on the screen. Knew the way his face softened and eyes went unfocused—yeah, knew exactly what was on the screen.

“Anything you care to share with the class, Mr. Rogers,” and then chuckled to himself, because “Mister Rogers”— _heh._

“No, sorry,” Steve said, and put the phone back down—but not without glancing at it one more time.

And Tony straightened. “Yeah, that?” He pointed at the tiny phone in Steve’s enormous hand. “Going out on a limb to say your Bucky Bear just told you that he misses you, or loves you, or saw an old copy of _Boy’s Life_ and thought of you?”

And Steve’s face was so obvious, and, yeah, nailed it.

“That message you got, whatever he said? The way it made you melt into a pile of romantic goo? That is why the next time Barnes gets on my shit about the state of modern technology, you’re gonna be on my side, Cap. One-hundred-percent on my side.”

And Steve snorted, actually blushed a little, bless him, and said, “Yeah, okay, Tony.”


	4. Stevedore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was just a nasty street mutt with nasty thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: "bucky goes down to the shipyard to pick up men. one day (night?) he sees steve there and gets all jealous and protective."
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: Fantasy dubcon verging on noncon.**

He shoulda known he’d run into Steve here eventually.

You couldn’t keep secrets in the neighborhood too long, and Bucky’s favorite secret pasttime, the one Steve absolutely couldn’t know about, had caused him practically to wear a rut in the pavement from their apartment to the docks.

It was no secret, though, why Steve was here, sitting on the edge of a retaining wall, sketchpad and pencil in his hands. Steve loved the curling lines of water against the angled cranes, fractured skyscrapers under construction, rust-stained ships lined up to spit out cargo from the old world.

Bucky? Bucky enjoyed the muscle and sweat of the men paid a pittance to yank out those crates and slam them onto the docks, stacking ‘em one on top of the other. Their yellowing undershirts, sunburned shoulders, untrimmed hair sliding sweat-damp into their eyes.

On lucky days, he’d be here when one—one of the right ones—got off-shift, and he’d look at Bucky, hard, and Bucky would look back and be followed, warily, into a dead-end alley a couple blocks away. One where no one else would follow and the other men, horny and lonely, wouldn’t ask too many questions after.

Looks like today wasn’t his lucky day, though, he thought, as he watched Steve swing his legs absently on the low wall just over that water. Watched him stick the end of his pencil in his mouth. Suck on it as he twisted it between his fingers.

Had a feeling.

Bucky scanned the docks. Yeah. Saw—saw one of those men, one of the right ones, paused in what he was doing and looking right at Steve. Leaning against the stack of crates and just giving him the once-over, and then twice and three times, and Bucky—yeah, Bucky knew what the guy was looking at.

A little guy, slight as a woman and not even aware of how he looked with his legs hanging down, spread a little, swaying. Pencil rolling between his lips. Too-big t-shirt sliding down over his shoulder, exposing his collarbone where the skin was milky-white and soft. Steve hadn’t had his hair cut in awhile—and Bucky reminded himself to cut it later, because that wouldn’t do, he needed to take _care_ of Steve, but right now it hung in sweeping lines over his brow, teasing into his wide eyes.

Knew the man on the dock couldn’t see the blue of those eyes, the lashes long and thick, but Bucky had them memorized. Could picture them behind his lids, clear as a photograph, when his own eyes were closed.

Bucky rolled his shoulders a little, tried to let loose the tension that had settled into his back, his arms. Knew how these guys thought—wound up after a long day, too rough and smelling like street mutts to sweet-talk any dame. And too poor to pay for it (much). These men—that one in particular, and Bucky had his damned eyes on _that one_ —would follow Steve into that alley and tear him up until he was nothing more than pieces. Not give a damn what was left after.

He tried really hard not to think of Steve against the wall in that place. Tried not to imagine how he would sound pinned there, someone—okay, not just someone—holding his skinny arms to the rough bricks, scraping him up a little. Pressing just right between those narrow thighs. Just holding Steve still while sucking dark spots into that tender skin over his collarbone and shoulder.

Just a _little_ rough. Not enough to really hurt.

He could never hurt Steve.

Shook his head when he realized Steve had spotted him, caught him looking—was waving with a sweet smile on his face. God, Bucky was the dog. Just a nasty street mutt with nasty thoughts. He gave Steve a little grin back, all forced, and then took one last look at the man on the dock. Waited until he caught the guy’s eye, and made sure his own expression held a warning.

The man frowned, looked away, went back to work.

Good. Fucking _good._

Bucky caught up to Steve and made sure he got home. If they went a little out of their way, maybe avoided a couple of streets and an alley that had a bad rep around the neighborhood, Steve didn’t seem to notice.


	5. A Few Licks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, Steve couldn’t speak. Just looked at Bucky across the room, let his mouth open and close a few times, and waited for it to be a joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: "More **Steve/Bucky spanking**. Maybe Bucky being the spanker this time. When they're both howling commandos. They'd both be strong and safe? Because I know you wouldn't want pre serum Steve and bucky in CA: TWS is broken."
> 
> Inspired by ["What do you need me for"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1578437) by Youssii.

At first, Steve couldn’t speak. Just looked at Bucky across the room, let his mouth open and close a few times, and waited for it to be a joke.

“Here?” was what he eventually said, and wasn’t that something. Not “why” or “are you kidding,” but logistics.

Saw the corner of Buck’s mouth curve into a smile. “Yeah. Right here.” He patted the thin mattress next to his hip. Bucky looked casual as all get-out, leaned against the wall on Steve’s bed. But there was nothing casual in how Steve was being looked at.

“But the men’ll … “ His throat was dry. “They’ll hear us.” Yeah, they were in Steve’s quarters—an officer’s cabin—but the walls were even thinner than those they’d grown up in.

“What’ll they hear?” Bucky asked, and for a split second Steve was terrified he’d misunderstood. Then: “They’ll hear their captain taking a few licks for disobeying orders, maybe, and putting himself at a whole lotta risk.” Bucky wasn’t smiling anymore. “Unnecessary risk.”

Steve already knew how this was gonna go. Bucky had pushed himself against the wall—left just enough space for Steve to crawl over his lap and settle there, ass up and ready. But—

His hands didn’t move to his belt—yet. “I’m not sorry for any of it.” He went ahead and wiped his sweating palms over his thighs, a gesture Bucky didn’t track, thank God. “I’m not going to—not going to apologize for getting you out. Or the others,” he added quickly.

“Not asking you to.” And Bucky shifted himself, readying, because if there’s one thing James Buchanan Barnes knew, it was when he was about to get his way. “But if you think I’m gonna let that go without a little whippin’ to get you back in line, you don’t know me very well. Captain.”

They stared at each other for a long time, maybe a solid minute, and Bucky looked tired, a little weak, but focused. Ready to give Steve what he thought Steve needed. And Steve—

Steve wanted nothing more than to give Bucky what _he_ needed.

Okay.

And Bucky really smiled, and ducked his head on a chuckle—smug jerk loved to win—when Steve started to undo his belt, pull it from the loops of his uniform trousers. Raised a hand out when Steve shuffled stupidly across the small room, knees trapped in the lowered pants legs.

Found himself settled long-way on the mattress, hips over Bucky’s thighs, Buck’s left hand soft on his ass. “Steve,” and Steve’s face was already bright red and burning hot, but he was going to be lectured, too. “I’m gonna teach you to look after yourself, okay, even when there’s no one else around to do it.”

“You’ll always be around, Buck—but do what you gotta do,” and he thought of the men and what they were about to hear, the warm smile on Bucky’s face, and how loved he felt at that very moment, just before Bucky’s hand came down for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Wooden Spoon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1963629) is a prequel to this.


	6. Tune Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds Bucky on one of the bad days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Maintenance Required (angsty or smutty.. or both. Both is good)"

It was one of Bucky’s bad days.

Once a month, Tony offered—insisted on—“tuning up” the arm. It wasn’t so frequent at first, more like “when he wasn’t too busy and thought of it,” but since Bucky had been working more with the team, Tony had become adamant about regular maintenance.

“We’re counting on that arm, soldier,” he’d said, with that exact tone that meant Bucky would be spittin’ mad after, and Steve had curled his fingernails into his own palms to keep from getting between them. Bucky hated that, too. Fighting his own battles, and all that. Steve understood.

Didn’t like it, but understood.

He knew he’d be handling fallout one way or the other, when Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes disappeared in the middle of the afternoon on a quiet day. So he braced himself, went looking, and found Bucky in that alcove outside Tony’s lab.

Dark little spot, quiet, with a single light directed haphazardly across a chair and small table. Bucky avoided being near Tony when the arm was being worked on—when the arm was _detached_ and being worked on—because Tony liked to talk, and Tony liked to ask questions, and they weren’t always questions Bucky wanted to answer. Not when he felt exposed, and not when Howard Stark’s son held the greatest and most terrible gift James Buchanan Barnes had ever received, twisting it in his hands like it was only so much machinery.

So, he … avoided. Didn’t hide, no—just moved quietly from the lab and stayed away—near, but away—until the arm was up to snuff and ready to pop back into the socket Tony had designed. Ready to slot back in with a heavy click and whir of servos that made Bucky shiver with relief.

Steve always tried to be there for that.

Today, though, Steve was there earlier, and he stood outside the elevator as the doors closed behind him. Watched Bucky, slouched back in the single armchair, hand over his face, eyes closed. Could have been dozing, at first glance—“zoned out,” as Clint would call it, but …no. No, he wasn’t.

Thinking too hard, instead. Obvious by the tiny vibration of one knee, the way his hand clawed, driving his own fingernails into the skin above his brow. Steve could just make out the sunken white impressions around the nails, and then red, irritated flesh further out.

Too much thinking. Too much brooding.

The elevator doors had announced him, he knew, and Bucky had probably peeked up when they first opened. Or he had assumed, based on the silence, that it was a friend—not Clint or Natasha, who would goad him into bickering, or Bruce, who would … well, stay away while the arm was being worked on.

Bruce wasn’t a big fan of tension.

So Bucky knew Steve was there, but didn’t move, didn’t speak—Steve only hoped he’d wanted to be found. He closed the distance and quietly knelt next to the chair, just beside that shaking knee. “Hey.” Made sure he got a response, just a little sound, before he spread a palm, flat, on Bucky’s slumped abdomen.

“Hey.” The voice was a little rough, but Buck pulled his hand away from his forehead—brought it down to the arm of the chair, where it curved over the edge.

Steve scanned Bucky’s face, frowning briefly at the angry indentations left by his fingernails. Another set of wounds. Forced his expression smooth before trying again. “Almost done?”

Bucky shook his head. “Just started.” Steve watched Buck just look at him, then, and huff a breath. “You here to hold my hand, darlin’?” Lifted it up, and Bucky still tried to be the player he’d been in the old neighborhood, but so much of what was broke in his heart was telegraphed.

Steve caught the hand anyway—held it tight in his.

“Maybe, if that’s what you want.” He shuffled on his knees a bit—shifted Bucky’s legs apart and sidled between them. When that wasn’t rejected, when Bucky didn’t try to squirm away, he leaned down and kissed a spot on Bucky’s stomach, over his shirt. “To start.” Kissed him again, and then pushed up so they were chest to chest, Steve’s weight holding Bucky in place.

Expected a reaction, but the derisive snort hurt a little. “You couldn’t possibly want—” And he rotated his shoulder where the missing arm would be—where the metal of the artificial socket protruded from the rolled-up sleeve. “Now?”

“You too busy?” Steve teased. Playing Bucky’s moods was tricky, but Steve pressed a kiss to his collarbone this time, and then nudged along Bucky’s jawline with his nose. Was rewarded with a chuckle—swallowed-down, but he’d take it.

With his other hand, Steve reached for the hem of Bucky’s shirt, sliding fingers beneath to touch, to slide smooth over the warm skin. “You’re crazy, Rogers,” he got in return, but Bucky moved, too, straightening himself out in the chair and catching Steve harder between his thighs. Maybe lifting his hips a little if Steve wasn’t imagining it.

Heard Bucky’s slow exhale of breath and was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining anything.

“Stark could come out here any minute,” was the token protest, but it … didn’t seem to be discouraging either one of them, all of a sudden.

Steve shrugged. They were holding hands, and Steve wasn’t gonna let go, but his free hand was good enough to hold Bucky’s head still for a kiss, to stroke his shoulder, to work on a button.

And if it wasn’t, he always had his mouth.

“Then let’s give him reason to work faster next time—whaddya think?”


	7. Behind the Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a book comes out, and so does Captain America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: "the Howling Commandos, Peggy, Stark, they all knew Steve and Bucky were a thing but since this wasn't done back then they never said but one of them wrote a book "the true story of Captain America and his Sergeant" where he goes into how wrong this whole homophobia deal is and that SteveBucky made him realise this and set it to publish like 10 years after his death or sth and that time happens to be... around now."

Steve knew the day the book was released.

He had to hand it to the publishers and their publicity folks—the book’s contents had been embargoed until the night before, with just a few tantalizing details leaked as favors to media allies. The next day, of course, the news was everywhere: Seniors woke up to their newspapers, and the rest woke up to reddit and HuffPo.

All bore the same basic headline: “Rogers, Barnes more than ‘best friends,’” and, “Behind the shield: Rogers had, lost male lover,” and, simply, “THE GAYEST GENERATION?”

The last was the pride and joy of The New York Post. Which Tony had pulled up on his tablet and was just staring at when Steve walked into the room. An actual hardcover of the book was on the kitchen island, and Clint, a couple of stools away from Tony and leaning on the counter, was flipping the cover open, then letting it fall shut, then open and shut again. (Mostly to irritate Tony, Steve guessed.) The cover showed the iconic photo of Steve and Bucky leaned together over a map, facing the camera, the sepia tones of Bucky’s image giving way to a crisp, full-color manipulation of Steve outfitted instead in Captain America’s current uniform.

The title? _Brothers in Arms: An Eyewitness Account of the Company that Made Captain America._

Steve had to hand it to them, really—it was well-done.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” was the first thing Tony said, tone bright, matter-of-fact. “We’ll file the lawsuit by lunch. Dinner at the latest, depending on whether we go after the estate.” Clint just blew out a breath, loud, and let the cover slap shut again. Tony looked at him, then leaned over and teased the book away from under Clint’s hands, sliding it toward himself over the slick stone. “Not for children, Birdman.”

“Aw, don’t mind him, Cap.” Clint’s tone was all irritating-younger-brother. “Just a standard case of hetero panic.” He easily dodged the arm that meant to cuff him.

Steve let them settle down before he replied. “Why would I want to do that, Tony,” he said, and it definitely was not a question.

“You don’t.” Tony, on the other hand, was definitely asking a question.

Steve took the seat next to Clint, reached across him for the book. “I thought you could only sue for libel if it wasn’t true.” He set it down in front of himself, cover up.

And Clint just … lit up, cupping his face in two hands, elbows on the counter surface, and beamed at Tony.

“You, shut that up,” Tony said back, waving in the general direction of Clint’s face. Turned to Steve. “Okay, listen—you and Barnes—”

“Yes, Tony, me and Bucky. The men knew it. The ones who counted did, anyway.” He reached for the book, picked it up with care. “Wisniewski was one of the young enlisted.”

Considered his next words carefully—he’d be doing that a lot in the coming days. “He … liked the touch of another man himself.” Steve touched the name embossed on the cover—could picture the awkward kid, sick with guilt, who had a couple confessionals with Steve in the dead of night. “He left instructions that it wouldn’t get published 'til ten years after he died. If you read the introduction, he hoped this would find a more sympathetic audience than it did in our time.”

Steve spared a moment to hope Pete had found some peace in his life. Love. “No way to know about me being here to see it, of course.” He flipped open to the first set of photo inserts, candids and official portraits still giving him a pang—but he was used to that now. “They didn’t have to call me, but they called me anyway. Asked for my okay. Let me look at the cover first.”

“So what you’re saying,” and that was Clint, because Tony for once didn’t have an immediate response, ”is that you’re cool with this. Which is what Natasha told you, Metalhead.”

Tony looked at Clint, gave the man a little eye-roll, and then leaned over to slap at Clint's bicep. Stood fully. “All right, then, Cap—I’ll call off the hounds.” Pulled out his phone, then paused for a minute. “You know, the people who put the book together? Knew you were around to see it. To deal with the fallout.” He looked thoughtful. “But nobody knows about Barnes.”

“Yeah, well.” Steve handed the book back to Tony—who had probably already read the whole thing cover-to-cover anyway. “I do.”

*******

The furor had died down after a couple days. Steve had given a short statement to the press, after which he had been asked a thousand questions about being gay in the battlefields of World War II, being gay in the Avengers, and, of course, Bucky Barnes. To those last few, he gave more detailed answers.

He used the words Pepper had helped him with, about being born this way, always knowing, and about the cold fear of living in a society in which loving whom you loved was a crime. Of the pain of being kept apart from the person he loved more than anything. Then he looked directly at the nearest camera and said, “If Bucky were alive today, if he saw this, I would want him to know that there is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep us together. I would never let him be taken from me again.”

It was off-script. Off Pepper’s script, anyway.

Four days after the book, he's drinking coffee in a quiet corner of a nearby cafe—one of many public outings he has planned until—

He hears the words, soft: “So. You loved me.” Doesn’t mean to smile, but apparently can’t help it; his face is already ignoring orders by the time he looks up to the man standing next to him.

He’s wearing a hat, low over his forehead; long sleeves despite the heat. Still looks scraped raw, hair uncut, shoulders hunched in on himself, but it’s Bucky and he’s alive, and Steve couldn’t have baited the hook better if he had written the book himself.

Knows what Bucky means, what he’s asking. “I did. A lot,” and of course he adds, “Still do.” He knows what was in that book—scribblings of a grown man’s struggles with a teenager’s memories. Old photos. Obvious hero worship and blatant exaggeration.

And just a few things that teenager would never have known about—letters sent, words whispered between them in quiet moments. Very specific sections of Steve’s old journal, long-preserved under lock and key and vows of silence in the Smithsonian, that he had requested and provided the publishers.

Things only Steve knew, and wasn’t afraid to use. Things he wanted Bucky to see.

Watches the man pull out a chair, scraping its legs along the floor, and sit down hard. “Now what, then,” and he looks exhausted, but Steve notices that he could have sat across the table, and instead chose the chair just next to Steve’s. He thinks of all the lines that ran through his head in the months leading up to this moment, about continuing their story and writing a new chapter, but they all sound dumb to his ears when faced with the real deal.

Instead he just says, “Come home with me, okay?”

There’s a pause—too long, maybe, for Steve’s taste and the fact that he is holding his breath. But it’s probably just a few seconds before Bucky slumps back in his chair, offers a crumpled smile, and says, “Okay.”


	8. Let the Punishment Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can't take any more of Bucky's lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got several prompts to continue [A Few Licks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3404027). Really couldn't figure out how to do it, so ... you know, have some Steve getting damned sick of Bucky's insolent mouth and giving him a good walloping.
> 
>  **Disciplinary spanking** and Bucky just being a naughty boy.

_“Fuck you.”_

The words were barely out of Bucky’s mouth, _hissed_ out of his mouth, and Steve’s vision was blurred with rage. He tried—lord, he tried—to keep it in check, but how could he—how?—when Bucky was just leaning against the wall, hips jutting out, twisting a couple fingers in his hair, and looking at Steve like—

Like he needed to be taken in hand.

Damned insolent. And to say those foul words to Steve, after everything they’d been through—

Bucky pushed out his tongue and ran it slowly over his lips, still twirling his damned fingers in his hair. Would probably say worse if Steve didn’t—

“Enough.”

Steve’s breathing had gone fast—panting, almost. He watched Bucky’s face—hell—light up, and that hand leave the tousled peaks of hair to drop down to Bucky’s side. The man leaned even more pointedly against the wall, tilted his head and said, “And what are you going to do to stop me?” He actually teased a hand over his abdomen, low over the flat line of his belly, too far beneath his navel to be decent.

The Bucky Steve knew had never been like this. Most days, he loved them both, but today—

God, today—

Steve had him by the scruff of his neck between one blink and the next, and marched him ahead, Bucky actually laughing the whole time as he stumbled from the living room to Bucky’s bedroom, and he knew what the man thought he was going to get.

But Steve was still running hot with anger, and that mouth. That face. God, that insolence. The constant challenge Bucky offered him nowadays as his eyes twinkled and his voice went dark and snide. Steve couldn’t take another damned minute of it. Needed to—

He was facing Bucky, and the bed was right there. Yes, Bucky thought he knew what he was going to get.

“Drop ‘em,” Steve ordered. “Bend over. Elbows on the mattress.” Saw that mouth fall open a little, finally a little surprise instead of fight in those blue eyes.

The humor was falling away, but an echo remained. “You gonna pound me, Cap? Teach me to mind with the power of your big, strong dick? Make me feel it for days?”

Nasty and dirty, and … and Steve— _God_ —couldn’t _not_ play the role Bucky was casting. He went for his belt, near-ripping off the buckle in his temper, and had to count to three before he dared answer. “Something like that,” and he couldn’t believe Bucky didn’t hear it in his voice. Didn’t take it as warning. “Now, pants down, and over the bed.” Bucky complied after another damned smirk, like he thought he knew, and Steve was sure he wasn’t imagining the exaggerated sway of the hips.

Heard a chuckle or two as Bucky pushed down pants and underwear, baring himself completely, and bent low, slowly, over the foot of his high bed. He settled his weight on the points of his elbows. Turned his head back a little, toward Steve. Voice full of satisfaction, like he was getting just what he wanted: “Ready. Lube’s in the—”

But Steve already had the belt looped in his hand, and he thought it only fair to give Bucky a warning. Correct his serious misunderstanding of the situation. “Do you want to count?” And, at that, Bucky’s head jerked around, and Steve had to hand it to him. He caught on pretty quick, went from _sex_ to _shit!_ in a second, but he didn’t … didn’t try to argue his way out of it. Didn’t push back at all. (Good.) Just bit his (damned) lip, looked up to Steve’s face, and Steve saw his eyes go a little unfocused as he shook his head.

“Fine. Then I’ll stop when I’m good and ready.”

“Steve—”

And that sounded a little like protest, which—no. “ _Good and ready_ , Buck.” And he watched Bucky take one last look at the belt—Steve’s white-knuckled grip on the belt—turn back and drop his face into his crossed forearms. Saw the shoulders sag a little in surrender.

_Good._

So, Steve knew now: Bucky made the most satisfying sounds while he was being hit. Hadn’t necessarily expected him to be stoic, not when it was just between the two of them, but was surprised—and, yeah, okay, pleasantly so—by the dirty mess of noises that now occupied the man’s mouth. Gasps, grunts, perfect little cries. So much better than the filth and fight. A few times, between strikes, Steve paused just to watch Bucky’s body react, try to recover. To see him shift between his feet, cant his hips to either side when the pattern of strikes on one or the other became a little too much to take.

It was a shameful kind of pleasure, watching the red lines form, cross each other over those buttocks, the tops of his thighs. Like Steve felt his anger leaching out of him as the welts on Bucky’s sleek, perfect ass themselves got angrier.

Wanted to mark up every exposed inch of that skin, get Bucky to keep his foul mouth shut for a little bit, and this was—seemed like the last thing to try. He brought the leather strap as close as he could to the divide where Bucky’s legs disappeared into his slouching jeans. Just where the skin got softer. Listened to Bucky groan, louder as it went on, hopefully more shamed, and eventually just whine Steve’s name, muffled by his wrists pressed over his mouth.

God, it shouldn’t have felt so good.

Turned out it felt amazing.

It took a real long time before Steve’s anger had burned out. When it did … when it did, it was at the end of one of the long, luxuriant cries of Steve’s name, rare and precious, followed by a soft “please.” And Steve snapped out of it—almost immediately. Almost. Dropped the belt from his hand and blinked once, twice at the crimson ruin of Bucky’s ass.

He couldn't catch his breath.

Knew suddenly that, while the satisfaction was still singing in his blood, he was probably—probably going to regret this, and soon. Could already feel the knot of guilt forming in his belly, ready to double up and drop him, make him beg for forgiveness. Ignored it, just for a moment, to deal with Bucky. He took a couple breaths, stepped closer to where Bucky was now limp over the mattress’ edge. Ran a gentle hand over that blistering hot flank.

Eked another helpless sound from the man.

Ugh. Yeah, there was the guilt.

“God, Bucky, I—” No excuse for this. No excuse except Steve had lost his damned temper, and this is what he’d reverted to. Everything he’d tried to—

How the hell was he going to make it up to—

And then Bucky rolled over, careful not to press his ass too hard against the edge of the mattress, and exposed his cock, thick and heavy and jutting straight up from between his legs. Just as red as his ass, but for an entirely different—

No, not an _entirely_ different reason, maybe. Probably the exact same reason.

Oh, _Bucky._

Steve tried to say it out loud, but found he couldn’t speak yet. Just shook his head and prayed for strength.

Buck’s face was flushed and tear-streaked, but those infernal lips were tipped into a weak smile, a satisfied smile, and, as Steve watched, he caught his lower lip between his teeth. (Again. God. _That mouth._ ) Arched his neck back, and said, “That was incredible. God, Steve. I didn’t know—” Reached down and squeezed his cock, probably for show, but his eyelids fluttered a little.

Had the nerve to add, in a hopeful tone, “Fuck me next?”

Steve sighed. No, this obviously had not been a fit punishment for the crime. Not one whit.

_Dammit._

Well, Bucky’s terrible behavior would have to be dealt with another day. Somehow. Maybe by someone who wasn’t him.

Maybe he could _pay_ somebody.

“Fine. Get on the bed,” he ordered in his sternest voice, and managed not to roll his eyes when Bucky’s face brightened.

Fuck it, Steve thought only to himself, and went to find some lube.


	9. Black Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy reconciliation drabble featuring pretty boys in tuxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the post of [Sebastian Stan in a tuxedo](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com/post/86835635463).

“ _Uh-uh-uh_ —you promised you’d stay a whole hour, Cap.”

That was Tony, and of course he’d seen Steve edging toward the exit after barely lasting over half of that. Steve cursed the layout that put the bar so close to the main door.

It was another one of Pepper’s make-nice galas—a chance for “key influencers” (also known as the rich and powerful) to interact with Earth’s mightiest _blah-blah-blah_ , everyone in diamonds and silk, with the hopes that Clint’s bawdy jokes and Nat’s expert manipulations would buy them goodwill in the aftermath of the next crisis.

Steve hated the damned penguin suit. It nipped in the wrong places, and, when Tony mocked him for comparing it unfavorably to “that uniform you _spray on_ up to your privates and beyond, Steve,” he’d just shrugged.

“The uniform has a purpose, Tony,” he’d said, continuing over the man’s annoying chuckles. He waved vaguely over the jacket. “This has no reason other than—”

“—to make you look pretty. Mission accomplished.”

That was five of these events ago, almost two years now, and Steve didn’t bother complaining anymore. Felt Tony press a drink into his hand. “Here,” he said. “You’ll make people nervous just standing around. Try to mingle. And—”

That’s when Steve saw him.

Things might have gone differently if he’d been the first to see the Winter Sol— _Bucky?_ —on the other side of the crowded room. But apparently Tony made the ID at the same time, and he brought his hand to his ear to activate the comms. Suddenly a third of the people in the room were whispering into their wrists.

Steve could barely hold onto his drink. The room was packed, yes—too crowded by half—but Bucky for some reason had a buffer, a good few feet of space in every direction, like people just knew to give him a wide berth. That’s the only way Steve could explain it, because—God, he looked good.

He looked _better._

In the two years since he’d seen Bucky last, just after the fall of SHIELD, on a single surveillance recording he was sure the Winter Soldier had allowed them to take … the man looked rough. Alive, okay, and broken arm splinted and coddled, but tired and blank and … He’d looked just exactly in the direction of the camera that had spotted him, given it a little … not smile, but his mouth had twisted, like he knew. Then he’d actually saluted once with that metal hand, and … that had been it.

Goodbye?

Two years of nothing, no matter how hard he searched. _Nothing._ It could have killed Steve, if Steve wasn’t dying a slow death from a broken heart. If every breath, when he thought about Bucky, thought about that last salute, didn’t already drag in like razorblades.

And now … As he felt the other Avengers move in around him (taking special note of Bruce, who was near the foot of the stairs at Bucky’s five-o’clock but seemed calm), he couldn’t help but appreciate how good Bucky looked. Clean-shaven, hair short and actually cared for, complexion clear and—God— _healthy._

And wearing a tuxedo.

Wearing _the hell_ out of the tuxedo, actually.

Yeah, okay, Tony had a point.

Despite Bruce’s proximity, despite the fact that every weapons-trained person in the room had an actual hand on an actual weapon, Bucky had never taken his eyes off Steve. His expression was cool, at first, but something he saw in Steve’s face must’ve worked for him, because Steve watched as a small—but real … oh, _real!_ —smile took over that mouth.

Steve knew one of them had to take the first step, but the moment, this very moment, was so perfect, he didn’t want to screw it up. So he just … jeez, he looked like a mook, he knew, but he shut his own gaping mouth, and maybe he was able to offer something that looked a little like a reflected smile, maybe even smooth and not broadcasting the excited panic that threatened to pound out of his chest.

Bucky’s reaction told him he’d either succeeded or looked like an even bigger idiot for the trying.

He heard Tony’s words through the echo in his ears, something about Steve’s drink (he’d had a drink?) and the rug being worth about fifty thousand dollars (“before this”), and then just a resigned sigh. Felt the weight of the man’s hand pat his bicep a few times.

“Cap’s down, everyone.” The chuckle didn’t even bother Steve this time, not right now. “Yeah, and by ‘down,’ I mean, holy shit, he’s got it bad.”

And Bucky waited until Steve took the first step, and then, thank God, he took one, too.


	10. Soused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers is an honest drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: "Thor brings back alcohol from Asgard specifically to get Steve drunk. The Avengers expect it to be hilarious but turns out Steve is a really affectionate drunk and has lots of nice things to say about everybody in general and Bucky’s ass in particular."

Whatever Thor had brought from home, it packed a helluva punch.

Tony was … well. Tony was regretting the promise he’d made to Pepper as she left the penthouse earlier. “No hard stuff,” she’d warned, due to the press conference scheduled for the morning and Tony’s penchant for being a little too honest when hungover. He’d squirreled away one good-sized bottle of Thor’s stash for self-discovery and maybe some reverse-engineering in the coming days, and now he just mixed his third Seven and Seven behind the bar while he watched everyone else get—

Soused.

Even Steve Goddamned Rogers. Finally.

Man, it was a pretty sight. The starred-and-striped hero was slouched down in the middle of the sofa across the room, eyes unfocused and cheeks ruddy, brown ceramic stein clenched in his hand—Thor had insisted on bringing appropriate conveyances for the … what the fuck was it? Superpowered mead?

And Steve was practically melting into the sofa cushions, bookended by Natasha on one side, Sam on the other. His protectors. Tony knew Natasha was nursing the same single glass of the stuff, and Sam was peering suspiciously into his second. Steve—Steve was _trashed._ Which was the goal. Thor’s goal.

Get Steve Rogers drunk.

Fuck, it was working. And Steve was talking under his breath, into the stein, as Natasha just raised her eyebrows and made noises of agreement, and Sam stared harder at drink two and periodically offered short sentences of encouragement.

Tony kind of wished he could hear what Steve was slurring. Until he saw both Sam and Nat look up at him—at Tony—suddenly, and— “Wait, what?” he asked.

Saw Sam nudge Steve and chuck his chin at Tony. “Go on, man—tell him.”

Watched Steve … unfold himself from the sofa back, slump forward on the sofa this time, elbows on his knees, and aim a look and crooked finger at Tony. “You … _You!”_ Fuck. Drunken honesty. He hated drunken honesty. “You. Are a good man, Tony Stark.” Oh. Well, okay—that wasn’t too bad? “A good friend. Everything you’ve done for—” He belched. Even better. “You’ve done for us? So generous. Thank you for being … “ He looked around for a moment, as if words were floating in the air. And then he finished: “… you.”

Tony rolled his goddamned eyes—couldn’t help it, it was reflex—and just offered a dry “you’re welcome” back. Oh, Steve. Predictable, even when drunk. Uptight. Conservative.

Tony watched with mild amusement as Steve turned to Bruce.

“And you!” And Bruce got the same treatment, wiggling finger and all. “Infinite patience.” “Understanding.” “Good heart.”

Clint: “Always have my back.” “Funny as heck.” (Wait—Tony didn’t get “funny as heck?” Objection, your honor.) “Loyal.”

Both Clint and Bruce took the opportunity of Steve’s praise to nod and murmur and beat a hasty retreat, which, in retrospect, was one of the better decisions of the day. Better than Thor’s to import the booze, better than Steve’s to drink it, and better than Tony’s to stand here and be a witness.

Thor got praised left and right for, of course, producing the booze. For being a good brother (excuse me?). For caring about Midgard like it was his own realm. For not holding back on Steve when they sparred. (And that got a laugh, because Steve actually thought they were holding back and not legitimately getting their asses kicked. By him.)

And then Bucky Barnes walked in. Steve hadn’t gotten to Sam and Natasha yet, and maybe he didn’t have to because of their unbreakable HYDRA-slaughtering bond they liked _to show off constantly,_ but Steve’s blurry gaze fixed on, then followed Barnes across the room as the man retrieved a soda can out of Tony’s bar fridge.

“And you—” And Tony braced for this one, because eighty years of back-in-the-old-neighborhood friendship was sure to produce some seriously maudlin sentiment. Schmaltz. Maybe even the L-word. Barnes must have sensed it, too, because he stood upright next to Tony with a look of dread on his face. (Tony had peeked.)

But Steve—fell silent. Just … wordless. Eyes still on Barnes, which— Yeah, Nat and Sam were sending off some weird body language, both looking at anything but Barnes or Steve. Just staring at their feet or off to the side somewhere, and the look on Steve’s face—

Oh, _boy._

He finally managed, “Bucky.” And, “You are … “ He breathed slow and long, then tried again. “You are … “

And Tony filled the following silence by suggesting that Steve, you know, “put down the fucking mug of alien rotgut” and “stop talking.” Gave Thor a dirty look and got an innocent shrug in return.

All fun and games until someone loses their God-given Catholic inhibitions, right?

Everyone knew the emotions here, between these two, ran high, what with Bucky Barnes being de-Winterized for no more than three months and Steve being about the only person he’d willingly have an actual conversation with. When they talked. They mostly just exchanged one-way piercing stares when the other wasn’t looking and—

_Oh, boy._ “Steve—” That was Tony, again. Trying to salvage these last moments before someone said something they regretted.

But the old man kept trying, and damn Thor and his Asgardian Everclear. “Bucky, I—” The way his face crumpled as his words failed, it was heartbreaking. Honest to God. It would have broken Barnes’ heart, but Tony wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure he had one.

And Tony felt, rather than saw, Barnes unwind next to him. Felt some of the constant tension uncoil. And someone was breathing hard—he’d guess it was Barnes, but suddenly it was difficult to look at either one of them. (And Sam and Natasha still weren't looking, the _cowards_.) Barnes set the soda down on the countertop but didn’t let it go. Tapped on the side of the can with metal fingers in a tight rat-a-tat, breathed out one more time, and said, “Steve. It’s okay. I know.

“I know.” Punched out and rough.

And Tony was just being stupid when he dismissed Bucky Barnes’ heart, because it was sitting across the room from them, drunk and exposed and goddamned _adoring,_ and Tony would rather already be in the actual press conference right now, for fuck’s sake.

He braved one more look at Steve, whose face was just … _Ugh._ And, seriously, Tony owed Pepper everything— _EVERYTHING_ —for not letting him drink any of that stuff, if the side effect was that painful naked emotion. The fucking unabashed joy of whatever was happening right at this moment between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.

Tony purposefully looked away as Barnes retrieved his soda and quietly made for the door, so he missed the look on Steve’s face as he shrugged off Natasha’s and Sam’s gently restraining arms, ignored their shushing, and said, way too loudly, “And he’s got the finest … finest ass I have ever seen,” and hiccupped. Which earned a snicker from just outside the doorway.

_Grrreat._

When JARVIS primly informed him after that Bucky Barnes was “now cohabitating” with Steve Rogers—which he termed a “facilities update” and not unseemly gossip—Tony wrapped up the remaining bottle of mega mead and left it at the door.

He skipped the “congratulations” card.

Everything had already been said.


	11. Back in Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come here.” And the Soldier patted his thigh as the corner of his mouth curled up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of [The Wooden Spoon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1963629) and [A Few Licks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3404027). Post-CAWS.

“Here?” Steve said, and his throat clicked as he swallowed.

Bucky—no—the _Winter Soldier_ was seated, waiting, in the middle of a busted-out old warehouse on the southeast side of the city, where Steve had tailed him away from the main conflict. Bucky—

The Soldier—

_He_ hadn’t been part of the battle that the other Avengers were in the process of cleaning up. Never was. Had a tendency, instead, to show up halfway through, kill a third to half of whatever was trying to hurt Steve, and then, after one long, dark look, disappear before Stark could get a fix or Sam could wing overhead.

Leaving Steve panting, and staring after him, and hoping he could read something in that last expression.

This time—just this time—the Soldier waited long enough for Steve to feel he could follow. “Do what you have to do, old man,” and that was Natasha, who made a spitting noise when Iron Man tried to protest about staying for the cleanup.

So Steve had shoved down the twinge of guilt and followed the Soldier here, found him seated on a solid chair in the middle of an empty, dirty cement floor. Leaning forward into the hands knuckled on his thighs. Pigeons cooed and shuffled in the rafters; beams of sunlight made their way through dust. Steve’s ears were ringing, hollow, and his vision had narrowed to a cameo of what was once Bucky Barnes.

Even with that long, stringy hair hanging down across his face, the Soldier left no doubt his attention was just as caught.

“Why? Are you still afraid they will hear?”

And if Steve made a little noise at that … could he really help himself? Oh. Oh, _God._ The lower half of his body, from his gut to the swell of his calves, started to heat. In his last sensible thought, he dug the transmitter from his ear, clumsy and scraping his own skin, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it under his boot. “No,” he said.

“Come here.”

And the Soldier patted his thigh as the corner of his mouth curled up.

Steve couldn’t lie to himself that this was Bucky. The voice was different, accented strangely, and Bucky had never looked at him like that. But he had to know. “Of all the things— Of everything there is to remember, you remember—” The laugh was damaged, even angry. “—this. You remember this.”

The Soldier tilted his head a little, and at least he wasn’t wearing the mask this time. The head-to-toe black leather and buckles were more than enough. Steve moved forward, just one step, though he didn’t realize it until after. Bucky— The Soldier smiled.

“This is a good memory to have.” And the smile dissolved just as quickly, a fleeting impression of kindness. This time it was less a pat than a stroke of fingers over that heavy muscle. Teasing. “Come here.”

The next exhale came with a whimper, and another step forward, bones drawn like filings to a magnet. Steve asked, “Why?,” not because he believed in a real answer, that he’d get one, but because … he wanted to hear that voice again. Wanted to be told—

_“You still don’t know how to take care of yourself. Steve.”_

—what to do.

He was standing next to the Soldier, then, somehow, and it was easy to glance back at the comms device on the floor—make sure it was truly ground to a powder. He turned back, looking down, and found the Soldier watching him, a crease under his eyes telling Steve he was amused.

Telling Steve that the Winter Soldier, like Bucky Barnes, knew when he was about to get his way.

Steve’s lips were bitten together, and he was breathing audibly through his nose, ears roaring, and he worked himself carefully out of the uniform trousers. The briefs. Pushed them down to his knees once again.

The way Bucky liked it. And the way Steve liked it.

Hadn’t had this in so long, and didn’t know who, which one, was going to give it to him. He was guided over that lap with the metal hand, knees pinching in his tangled clothes and breathing like he had run a damned marathon, and Steve thought he was going to be spared the worst of it. Not the metal hand, but Bucky’s own skin on his ass, the hot sound of flesh striking flesh as Steve moaned and twisted and gripped the closest ankle.

And that’s exactly what the Soldier delivered. Pressed down by metal hand, chastised by flesh. And Steve realized, as the cold, artificial fingers braced between his shoulder blades, and the warmth of Bucky’s own hand caressed and then struck him, stroked him and slapped once, twice, again, and _again_ …

Steve remembered enough for both of them, as one hand steepled on the ground and the other circled that booted ankle—

Remembered the pain of the punishments and the surety of the love, delivered and received together … remembered how it felt to cry out Bucky’s name and knew _Bucky heard him_ , and Steve realized—

No. He hadn’t actually been spared at all.


	12. Lookout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is compromised, Steve is worried, and Clint looks out for his team.

It didn’t happen every time, but when it did, Clint sometimes saw it on Cap’s face before he did on Bucky’s.

It was another party. Another of the meet-and-greets Pepper coordinated as a gesture of goodwill between Avengers and the people who could make things difficult for Avengers. Not in the Tower, this time—not after the last homefront attack had left the Richie Riches scrambling for their luxury sedans in the basement parking lot. This time it was a luxury hotel that might as well be anonymous for all it mattered. Safe—they’d made sure of that—but just another place with a swirled pattern in the carpet and gold light fixtures. Glaring white tablecloths.

Clint was fuckin’ tired after the day they’d had. But someone would have to lose a head, and literally, before these damned things could be rescheduled. People flew in from around the world for a chance to debate morality with Nat, risk a handshake with Bruce, and … just fuckin’ swoon over Steve Rogers.

Steve was splittin’ those duties these days. Barnes had only started making appearances a few months before, when it got harder to hide a sudden seventh member of the team, and one with a shiny metal arm to boot. Few civilians had heard the name “Winter Soldier,” but when it got out that James "Bucky" Barnes was alive, and still young like Cap, and that they were fighting together?

It was like the Beatles had landed in the States all over again.

“You always have a choice, Barnes,” Tony had said after Pepper passed on the messages, the emphatic inquiries, all “Sergeant Barnes” and “James Buchanan Barnes” and “Will Bucky be there?” like they actually _were_ written by sixteen-year-old girls, but Bucky had just given him a dirty look and told Pepper that, yeah, he’d go. Sure.

If it was Tony’s job to milk his colorful history with these people, if it was Cap’s job to smile and be fawned over and represent the interests of the good-ol’ U-S-of-A … well, it was Clint’s job to see when something made that job hard. Clint got a look at Steve, fifteen feet away and frozen with that wrinkle between his brows, and—

He followed Cap's line of sight.

Barnes was still new to these dog-and-pony shows, so It had only happened a couple of times—a few—but when Barnes got out in public, when he was approached by a certain type …

Yeah. A certain type.

And there was Bucky, just where Steve’s hard look had led Clint, tucked into a corner where two tables met, with a silver-haired man standing over him.

No, not over him—the man was old, withered a little, and Bucky was still young and straight-spined and strong, but all it took was a certain kind of man, and this one fit the bill. Pale hair, gray or blond, a little weather-beaten, and friendly—oh-so-friendly. But it took a little more than that, too. Clint hadn’t caught what had set Bucky off this time, and maybe Steve hadn’t either. Because it also took a certain kind of over-familiar handsiness: The man could have tugged on Bucky’s sleeve, or straightened his lapel, or poked him once in the chest, genially, to make a point—maybe chuckling over something or even saying something fond, admiring, and he hadn’t realized yet that the Bucky had drained out of Barnes over a moment. Didn’t notice the curl-in of Bucky’s shoulders or slackening of his mouth. Didn’t see how his eyes had gone dim.

Didn’t realize he was waiting.

No, it only took a certain kind of man to push Bucky back in deep, and draw the Winter Soldier back out. And if Clint appreciated having the Soldier at his back on the field, all endless weaponry and Red Room reflexes, this one … this was the other Soldier. The one they’d seen in research videos, strapped into a chair, waiting for orders or debrief or worse.

Punishment.

Hibernation.

This broke Steve’s heart, or really just kept it from ever fully healing, and if Barnes had even realized it was happening, Steve would have called this whole thing off, these stupid parties, but … He’d snap out of it—come to—and blink up at Steve and …

There was Bucky again.

But it didn’t have to be Steve to intervene, not every time. So Clint pretended to be on the way to the bacon-wrapped shrimp when he jostled the old guy hard in the arm. Shitty move, sure, since the guy must’ve been pushing mid-seventies, but it was enough, and, with a few apologies, he sent the man on his way. Some diplomat on leave, someone who would go tell his wife or kids or grandkids how he met _The_ Bucky Barnes, actually got to talk to him, and Clint spared a moment to feel bad that the guy didn’t even know what he’d done to his childhood hero.

Still, even with the run at his arm, Clint had done Gramps a favor. He’d seen a few men sent off by Captain America, made cold and rude by fear, and one of these days they’d have to teach Steve not to show everything on his face when it came to Bucky.

That could be Nat’s job.

“Barton?”

Clint had his shoulder to Bucky, close enough to pick up the quiet word and keep anyone else from getting a shot. 

“Yeah, Buck—just gettin’ some grub. You all right?”

The answer wasn’t immediate, and Barnes could hide a helluva lot, so Clint was never sure what was going on in that head as things shifted back into place. But, as Clint grabbed a plate, he heard just a little confusion in the response: “Yeah. I’m good.”

Sure enough, Clint had barely gotten a half-dozen of the admittedly delicious bacon-wrapped shrimp into his mitts before Steve was pretty much on top of Bucky, showing everything on his face of course but trying real hard not to be scary about it. Clint knew the drill—this was the excuse to get the hell out, and he’d hustle Bucky down to one of the waiting cars and back to the Tower before anyone knew they were missing.

What went on once they got there, everyone kept telling Tony, was none of their goddamned business. Akbar and Jeff—brothers or lovers or both—who the hell knew.

This month’s unintentionally creepy old guy would go home warm and happy about meeting his heroes, and, the next time someone bad-mouthed the trouble the Avengers caused—the damage they were responsible for—he’d argue that much harder to “show some damned respect—they’re war heroes.” They’d done their job, and he’d do his.

And Clint would keep doing what he was doing—eyes in the air, looking out for his teammates.

Especially the ones who couldn’t always look out for themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's a [Life in Hell](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_in_Hell) reference.


	13. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky enjoys Steve on stage.
> 
> Just a dirty little drabble. Howling Commandos era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit. Sexual content, swearing, semipublic sex, dirty talk ... You know, yer basic smutty thing ...

It was the first time Steve had been on stage since that last, nightmarish USO show.

Right now he couldn’t decide if this was still some nightmare, or the best goddamned dream he’d ever had.

Their camp had an honest-to-God _theater_ in the middle of it—an old playhouse that had been abandoned before the war but housed enough room on its sloping floors to put some admittedly uncomfortable dining tables. A few rows in the back that had been left intact and were always the first seized by guys who didn’t mind eating off trays in their laps.

And one stage left mostly unbothered behind the curtains, unless some bigwig had something to say.

Right now the curtains were parted just an inch. Two. And it was lunchtime, and the theater was full of hungry soldiers.

And Bucky …

Bucky had this “great idea.”

So right now Bucky was pressed up tight behind him, mirroring Steve on his knees, and, even though Steve couldn't see him, he could tell that bastard was smiling.

"Aw, c’mon, Stevie—I hear you _liked_ being on stage."

And that was a damned lie, and Steve would have answered, would’ve put the smug jerk in his place, except Bucky had Steve’s fly open, and his shorts pushed out of the way, and—

The curtains liked to sway, just a little. A slash of yellowed bulb light cut through the darkness of the stage and lined Steve from his crown to where his knees were just spread on the dusty planked floor. Makin’ Steve blink when he moved just so. When Bucky moved him just so. Makin' him see all the men who were just on the other side, who couldn't see in by luck of lighting and angle.

Bucky kept stopping to spit into his hand, before sliding it back around to Steve’s front and taking the stroke back up, fingers tight around his swollen cock, the one he’d teased out of Steve’s underwear with a smile and a dare.

Steve was … was …

Fuckin’ frozen in place.

"Buck."

The answer was quick: “Shh. You don’t want them to hear you, right?” And how the hell had they gone from “Come on, Steve, let’s just go up there and relax. Five minutes where the boys can’t find us,” and, “Come on, Stevie, just one little kiss, just one, I’ll make it quick,” to _this_ …

Steve on his knees, pants opened, being jacked rough and just to the edge before Bucky would chuckle—fucking _laugh_ —and slow it down, nudge Steve’s knees further open with his own, bite at the lobe of Steve’s ear or the curve of his neck, and say something awful.

"You’re breathin’ kind of loud, Captain—better calm down."

Or, “Drippin’ all over the place, ain’t ya? And who exactly is gonna clean that up?”

But Bucky wasn’t showing signs of slowing down, not this time, and his body was so warm against Steve’s back, so strong, and his arms were a tight circle, unbreakable, and his voice was soft and sweet in Steve’s ear.

"You’re just perfect like this, Stevie, just perfect. Maybe someone’ll pull that curtain back and you can really give ‘em a show this time. Maybe someone’ll pull the curtain back—," and he paused just a second, and it was enough to make Steve’s heart fuckin’ pound almost out of his chest, "—and they can all see just how good you can be for me. Just how good you always are."

And he licked slow and hot and sloppy from the soft skin over Steve’s pulsing carotid to the dark place behind the shell of his ear. He nosed the skin there, exhaled into Steve’s hair, and said, “Yeah, they’ll see how good you are, when it comes to following’ orders. Because you can follow orders, can’t you, Captain? When you feel like it?”

And Steve knew that was a goddamned trick question, but Bucky had his hand on Steve’s dick and he didn’t want to risk it, because he was close, finally close, and lunch service was shutting down, and if there was ever a damned time the men were gonna get their business into what was going on up on the stage, it was during clean-up, and—

"Like, for example," and Bucky was some kind of robot out of a science fiction story if he could keep going when his own hard dick was practically poking into Steve’s ass, but somehow he was doing it, "if I gave you an order right now to come," and "come" was punctuated with one more good squeeze, holy God, "do you think you could come when I ordered you, Captain? Are you _that_ good a soldier?”

Steve whimpered then, finally, and that brought Bucky’s other hand up to cover his mouth, and the son of a bitch chuckled again. “Not sure if I heard that right, Captain? Was that a ‘yessir?’”

And Steve said it fast and clear as soon as the palm came away. “Yes, _sir_ ,” on a breath, and that other hand kept workin’ him—thank ... thank _God_ —and he wondered if Bucky knew he was gonna come any minute, orders or no.

And that free arm came up under Steve’s, and held onto his shoulder tight from underneath, and Bucky’s face was just there, practically in the corner of Steve’s eye, and his voice …

That voice, that sweet, mean, teasing voice he would know forever—had known forever—told him so: “Then _come_ , soldier—that’s an order.”

And Steve … Steve finally found an order he could _follow_ as Bucky’s grip twisted the orgasm right out of him, as Bucky totally failed in getting a hand up fast enough over Steve’s mouth, but Steve held himself in just barely enough not to cry out on the dusty floor of an old theater, with dozens of men—their men—one threadbare stretch of velvet away.

Bucky probably couldn’t tell what Steve said behind his bitten up lips as he splattered filthy over Bucky’s fist, but it tried to be, “Sir. Yes, sir.”

"You put on quite a show, Cap," Bucky said after, and, "Might need a repeat performance," and if Steve gave him a dirty look—well, it was totally deserved. And so was the blow job that followed—in the privacy of the officers’ quarters, for God’s sake.

**Author's Note:**

> You'll [find me on tumblr](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com) obsessing over Avengers doin' each other.


End file.
